


We Who Learn to Shun the Light

by ineachplace



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-11 16:29:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15976115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineachplace/pseuds/ineachplace
Summary: Naya Trevelyan sees Cullen the day the world first starts burning, and that's the beginning of everything.





	1. Chapter 1

Closing that first rift had been painful. The green, sinewy strands that shot out of her hand felt like knives pushing through skin, or needles flying through the pincushion of her palm. It felt unnatural. It _was_ unnatural. She didn’t need to know what it was to understand that no human should ever wield it.

Still, she continued on, rubbing small circles into her hand to coax the blood back into it. It was difficult for Naya to hide her grimace under Cassandra’s watchful gaze. Still being a prisoner, Cassandra eyed the sword on Naya’s back with distrust, so she wanted to give her no reason to doubt her usefulness.

“You are becoming rather proficient at this,” Solas had told her, a note of pride in his voice. Varric sidled up beside him, eyes ahead and above, staring at the malevolent green tornado in the distance. She had met them only moments ago, and took a particular liking to Varric. Prisoner bond or something like it.  

“Let’s hope it works on the big one,” he muttered.      

“For all our sakes, it must.” Cassandra was formidable. Naya had thought it the moment she met her. For someone relatively slender, she had an imposing gait, and swung a sword like it was what she was born to do. When she spoke, Naya had no choice but to listen.

They were close to the center of the Temple now. Closing the second rift had been so painful that she doubled over in the snow and vomited only seconds after the loud crack signified the seal. Her three companions said nothing. Cassandra only looked at her with a look of vague surprise—as if she had just realized something that Naya herself wasn’t aware of.

Solas was healing a gash on Varric’s knee when Naya saw a man approaching to her left. She tensed, the warrior in her expecting another enemy.

"Lady Cassandra, you managed to seal the rift,” the man, tall and broad, was clearly a friend, and she disarmed immediately. He was looking straight at Naya as he spoke, not even glancing at Cassandra.

“Commander, do not thank me. This was the prisoner’s doing,” Cassandra said gruffly. It felt like high praise, coming from her.

“Is it,” he asked flatly, his stare never wavering, “I hope they’re right about you. We’ve lost a lot of men getting you here.”

Her hackles raised, and she felt herself recoil just a tiny bit, wanting to bite back at his tone but understanding that this wasn’t the time or the place.

 “I hope they’re right about me, too,” she decided on, unable to hold his gaze any longer, instead choosing to press at her strange green mark. The intensity of his attention, arresting like Cassandra’s, but curious, unrelenting, made Naya’s hands shake.

Everyone talked for a few moments, and it gave Naya a chance to look at him a bit more. He wasn’t staring at her anymore, instead in a heated discussion with Varric and Solas over something Naya can’t quite hear. For a man in the middle of a bloody battlefield, he was completely spotless—almost glowing, actually. She wondered how he managed to keep the blood, even just the ash from the fires, off of him. She only stopped looking when he made eye contact with her again, giving her a stiff, curt nod.

“Maker watch over you, for all our sakes,” was the last thing he said before walking through the ruined arches of the temple.

The rift crackled in the distance, and she could hear the sounds of demons ripping through human flesh.

She hopes the Maker will.

 

——

 

Haven smelled bad. She woke up thinking it even through the grogginess and the disorientation. It smelled like metal and cow manure. No warmth to it, whatsoever. And it was freezing. Absolutely frigid, even with the small fire she had awoken to. It reminded her of winter in the Free Marches. Her brother’s sleigh and the way it split when they crashed it into a tree.

They bowed to her when she walked out, some people actually falling to their knees in worship as she stumbled out of the small house in the village center, fumbling with the uncomfortable tunic they—whoever—dressed her in.

“That’s her. The one who closed the breach. That’s the Herald of Andraste,” someone whispered in awe. She tried not to scowl, tried to ignore how her skin crawled at the title. Only a day ago, they would have seen her hanged, strung up and left to die for what happened at the Conclave. And now they call her savior? Bow to her? This mark, whatever it was, felt far more like a curse than it did a gift.

Naya heard voices coming from the wide set of doors inside of the Chantry, and briefly remembered the man—the Commander, from the Temple. The dark fur around his neck, like a mane. Would he be here? Neither of the raised voices sounded like his. She swung open the doors, however, and was met with three familiar faces.

“You’ve Met Commander Cullen,” Cassandra gestured towards the man that she was just thinking about.

“Only for a moment. I’m pleased you survived,” Cullen smiled easily, a distracted look in his eyes. It was still a warm expression, and decidedly more friendly than his first interaction with her. He walked over to her and shook her hand before dipping his head respectfully. He smelled like weapon varnish and spice. Sharp and clean. A welcome scent in this otherwise manure-filled fortress. She tried not to lean into it.

Leliana nodded her head towards her, a silent greeting.

Josephine she hadn’t met before. She greeted her with a bouquet of wildflowers and elfroot leaves, “for everything you’ve done already and everything you will, no doubt, continue to do.” Naya blushed.

She felt Cullen watching as she greeted the women, felt herself watching when he addressed the group, even after, as he looked over his papers while they continued to set up the war room map.

Cullen, she found herself turning the name over in her mouth, like she was trying to figure out a riddle. Cul-len. Cul-LIN.

She wasn’t sure why the man struck her so, why he had made any kind of impression at all. He was an ordinary human. Tall, strong, like a soldier had to be. Not her type, really, but handsome. Something intrigued her, though. Something behind his eyes. Not a secret, not a challenge or simply a desire to figure him out, but something pulled at her slightly when she looked at him. A kind of nameless ache.

It was a whole month later that she got to even speak to him directly. Between the events in Val Royeaux, recruiting Sera and Vivienne, she’d barely been able to make it to the war room meetings, and when she did, Cullen was out the door immediately after, a group of scouts following behind him with updates.

He stood amongst his soldiers on the training grounds one day when Naya left a meeting with Minaeve early, gloved hands gripping yet another report. His fur mantle blew slightly in the wind, as did tufts of his blonde hair. The winter sun cast a shadow on his figure, stretching him out to look almost godlike on the snow-covered ground.

“Commander,” Naya greeted, smoothing out the leather of her vest. He looked up from his report with a slightly rattled expression, and she felt nervous to be on the receiving end of his gaze again. He handed off the report and gestured for her to walk with him.

“We’ve gotten recruits from all over Ferelden; men and women are eager to avenge Divine Justinia’s death. We will do all that we can to help close the Breach.”

Another Scout handed Cullen a report and a quill, which he quickly signed and handed back to them. His signature was thick, the pressure from writing with his fighting hand made the letters look dense and blockish. It wasn’t what she expected, but it did make sense.

“I have this mark on my hand for a reason. It will work, I’m sure of it,” she said, almost to herself. She felt it pulsing beneath her gloves, wondered if it would start to shine through.

“Provided we can find aid, but I’m confident we can,” he was looking at her hand, watching as she rubbed circles into it. “There’s so much that needs to be done, you know. Between the mages and the Templars, we could begin to change the very foundation—”

She watched him as he talked, entranced. He was looking straight ahead, hands gesturing wildly and emphatically as he discussed his strategy for getting the mages and Templars to work together again. She wondered what he’d been like before this. If he had someone waiting for him, thinking of him. Just as she was about to interject, he stopped walking, huffing out a small laugh and turning to look at her again.

“Forgive me. You didn’t come to me for a lecture,” he rubbed the back of his neck apologetically. The scar on the right side of his upper lip moved with him as he smiled, and she tracked the movement for a second before stopping herself.

“No,” she laughed, “but if you have one prepared, I’d love to hear it.”

His gaze softened, and he smirked, right hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

“Another time, perhaps.”

This time, she couldn’t stop herself from looking at the scar again. It was more beautiful than any tattoo, any marking she’d ever seen, really. Moonlight white, curved like a scythe, and it made his mouth impossible to ignore. So she stared.

He cleared his throat after a few seconds, straightening his slouch a bit. “I, ah...” he said, voice soft and curious, like he was about to ask her something.

“Commander,” a Scout came up to him, handing him a stack of papers. Just like that, whatever small moment they were having passed. Naya felt a small pinch of disappointment.

“A commander’s work is never done, I see,” she teased, gesturing for him to return to his duties. He smiled, eyes warm, and walked away.

 

\--

 

“Commander, I would not discount the mages so quickly,” Leliana said calmly. They hadn’t even made it to the war room before the strategy discussion started. They’re standing in a circle in the middle of the Chantry, Cassandra with her arms crossed impatiently, and Cullen with a deep scowl. The Templars had flat out rejected the Inquisitions’s offer, making it known that they did not intend to provide their aid. Lord Seeker Lucius was clear about his disdain for their Inquisition.

“I agree,” Naya says, “the Templars have no interest in aiding this cause. I believe the mages could be our best option.”

Cullen sneers, “So you believe the mages are more united than the Templars? Herald, I assure you, siding with the mages would be most unwise.”

“With all due respect, Commander, how can you be so sure that they would not be the better alliance? Other than your own personal biases?”

Leliana had told her a bit about Cullen. Mostly because she had prodded her several times for information on him, and Leliana finally gave in, telling her about his time as a Templar, and his distrust of mages. She could tell that she was leaving out a lot. For all her expertise in deceit and spying, Leliana had a soft heart, and it was easy to tell when she skipped over something particularly upsetting.

Cullen’s expression hardened, mouth pressing into a tight line.

“Personal biases aside, the mages can be unpredictable, and to ally with them without Templar supervision could prove dangerous for everyone.”

“This is not the Circle, Commander,” her voice rises, as does his. She isn’t sure when she got so angry, or why, for that matter.

“I am aware of that, thank you,” he says, agitated.

“Then are you also aware that the Templars refused our plea for help? You were there for that news, no? Unless you, yourself, would like to try to convince the Templars to see reason, I do not understand why you won’t support us even attempting to meet with mages.”

“Because, Lady Herald, it is dangerous! They are in the midst of a rebellion, and there could be fighting among the ranks. Templars are trained for this. They could suppress the power of the breach long enough for you to close it.”

“Pure speculation,” Leliana chimes in.

“The Templars are in no better shape, if our meeting with them in Val Royeaux is anything to go off of.”

“But you said yourself that a few questioned Lucius, did you not? There are clearly some among them who would be willing to provide aid.”

“Are you proposing we cause our own Templar rebellion, Commander? We could destroy the very balance if we meddle further,” Naya is almost yelling now, her patience nowhere to be found.

“But we won’t know that unless we try!”

“Enough. Enough,” Naya concedes, realizing only then that she and Cullen are standing a mere two feet apart, her hands balled into fists at her sides. His chest is heaving, and Naya is close enough that she can hear him trying to regulate his breathing.

“We will meet with Fiona, as she requested. At the very least, we will hear them out.” She steps back, unclenching her hands and stretching her fingers out. She can feel the heat in her face as she and Cullen continue to stare at each other, seething.

“W-why don’t we reconvene in the morning,” Josephine offers, stepping in between the two of them. It acts as a barrier, and both she and Cullen finally break eye contact.

“Very well,” Cullen mumbles, brushing past them all and out the doors.

Stupidly, she follows.

“Commander!” She yells after him as he enters his tent, anger rising within her as he ignores her.

“Commander,” she’s practically vibrating with rage by the time she swats open the flap of his tent and sees him pacing back and forth.

“I have nothing more to say to you, Herald,” he practically spits at her.

“Good, then you can listen.”

Cullen stops pacing and faces her, arms crossing protectively over his armor.

“My brother was a Mage,” she starts, moving closer to him. “A damn good one. He was sent away to the circle too young, and he died there. Do you know how?”

Cullen doesn’t respond.

“A blood mage seized the lofts my brother and his friends slept in. He locked them in and held them hostage as he tried to raise an army of Darkspawn to kill the Templars in the tower. When the Templars finally got the doors open, do you know what they did,” her voice cracked, and she stepped even closer, needing Cullen to feel this, to really hear this. She hadn’t told a soul about her brother since she came here, had barely allowed herself to even think about him.

“They killed everyone. Not just the blood mage, but everyone. My brother. His friends. The boy he loved. They killed them all, for fear that they, too, were blood mages. Without even a thought. So I understand what it is to hate a group for the actions of a few. I know what it is to be afraid of magic, to have death touch everything around you until you are alone and wretched with it. Yet I see you and do not think of those men who killed my brother. I see past what you were, and I will fight until my last breath to give every single person that same chance to prove to me that they are more than their title, more than what has been done to them.”

She is nearly hysterical now, the force of her confession almost debilitating, especially under the agonizing watch of the man in front of her. The mark on her hand crackles, sparks of heat flying up and almost into her elbow.

Cullen moves closer, the impenetrable wall of anger surrounding him melting into something less hard but equally urgent.

“I—“ he starts, reaching out to her, as if he is going to, what?

He’s barely a foot away now, so close that the fur around his neck is touching her chest, and she can smell that same clean varnish. He looks lost, childlike, as he searches her face, gaze finally landing on her mouth.

They are silent. Naya is vibrating with barely contained energy, the knife-point of her rage turning into something sweeter and far more dangerous. If he kissed her now, she realized with astounding clarity, that she would kiss him back.

“Forgive me,” he whispers, warm breath washing over her lips and making her shiver. He turns and leaves the tent.


	2. Chapter 2

Iron Bull was an unexpected and quick friend, it turned out. Despite her knowing all but nothing about the Qunari, she found herself at his tent several times a day, asking him questions, learning as much as she could.  
He was resistant at first, but opened up the second day, when she brought him the strongest alcohol concoction she and Sera could make from the tavern.

“Hey Bull,” she asks him one night, just before the sun goes down.

“Yeah, boss,” both of them are watching the recruits wrap up their training in the field.

“Do the Qunari have sex before marriage,” she asks, watching Cullen train with a recruit, a shield in his hand. They hadn’t spoken alone since their fight last week. Not even after they secured the Mage alliance. She found that he could barely look at her at war room meetings, always leaving the moment they were concluded.

“The Qunari don’t marry, Boss,” Bull says plainly, looking down and starting to polish the pommel of his maul.

“So you, what, just have sex for fun? Whenever you want?”

Cullen’s sweating, and he stops the sparring match to take off his fur, his lion mane, Naya adds, to reveal his impossibly broad shoulders.

“Pretty much. It’s not a big deal like it is here. You find people to pop your cork,” Bull clicks his tongue for effect, “Then you’re on your merry way.”

Without the thick fur around his shoulders, Naya can see the real shape of his body, can watch how fluidly he moves; a kind of melodical barbarism that she’s never quite seen in a soldier before. With Bull, he moved like a battering ram. Same with Blackwall and Cassandra. Each of them moved with a mechanical precision, but Cullen—it was almost like he was dancing. She thought he’d have made an excellent rogue, had he been any less honorable. For a man his size, he was graceful—delicate, even, in the way he lunged and slashed.

“I wish it was like that here,” she says, almost wistfully.

“It could be, boss,” he smiles, mischievous.

“Yeah? You’d do the honors?”

“Oh, in a heartbeat,” he laughs, finally distracted enough to set his maul aside, “probably help you get your mind off of that Commander over there.”

“H-how did, I don’t, we’ve barely even—“

“Ben Hassrath, boss. I can practically read your mind,” he says. She looks back at Cullen.

“Might take you up on that one day, Bull,” she sighs. He laughs and slaps her shoulder.

——

Haven is nicer at night, especially past the forge, closer to the lake and the wilderness. The wild elfroot cleanses the air, making it smell like rainwater instead of cold metal.

She likes to walk on the frozen water, watch the strange, fishlike creatures swimming below the surface.

It’s later than usual when she starts her stroll, so not even the regular wanderers are about. Naya thinks about Alexius while she walks, about Leliana’s gaunt and haggard face, her tortured form hanging by the ceiling. Blackwall and Sera had fought to the death for her, as did Leliana. The magnitude of their faith in her, even after the nightmare was over, shook her. And Dorian, practically a stranger, had thrown himself in front of Alexius to protect her.

She knew that, by accepting (however begrudgingly) the title of Herald, she was inherently important, but, worth dying for? She wasn’t so sure. It was strange, feeling faith grow inside of her. She did not know it before the mark claimed her. Perhaps it did choose her for a reason.

A pair of footsteps on the ice behind her have her drawing her sword instantly. She turns, pointing the blade right at the figure, still shrouded in darkness.

“Maker, it’s me! Herald, it’s Cullen.”

She sees his gloved hands break through the foggy night, sheathes her sword the second he is visible.

“Scared me half to death,” she mumbles, rubbing at her mark again.

“Does it hurt,” he asks, walking up to her and gesturing towards her hand.

“It’s fine,” is all she manages.

“I didn’t expect to find you out here,” he says after a long stretch of silence. “I usually come out to clear my head. I can leave, if you’d like to be alone and do the same.” His voice is cautious, quiet, like he’s waiting for her to tell him to go.

“There’s plenty of space for the two of us,” she says firmly, straightening her shoulders.

“Truthfully, Herald, I’ve been wanting to speak with you.”

He walks closer to her, keeping a respectful distance, but making sure he’s close enough that she can see his face clearly.

“I never gave you a proper apology for my behavior the last time we spoke. It was...it was unforgivable, the way I acted.”

She relaxed a bit, crossing her arms, asking him to go on.

“I am not proud of the man I used to be. My friends suffered so much at the hands of mages, as did I, and that rage...for years, it blinded me.”

“Leliana told me a bit about what you went through.”

“I do hope she spared you the details. Still,” he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck the way he does so often when he’s around her, “because of my experiences, I have treated mages with distrust and anger, often without cause. I should remember that Templars are just as capable of evil.”

Cullen drops his hand from his neck, straightening his back so that he is at his full, impressive height in front of her.

“I am trying to be better. I…am sorry for questioning you about your decision to enter into an alliance with the mages. When they arrive to close the breach, I assure you I will be nothing less than supportive. And—and I am incredibly sorry for what happened to your brother. That,” he sighs, shaking his head, eyes so full of sympathy that Naya has to look away, “was a truly evil act, and yet you still treat me, a former Templar, with the utmost respect. I cannot apologize enough, Lady Herald. I beg you for forgiveness. I can only offer you the promise that I will never behave like that again.”

He bows his head in shame in front of her, and Naya has to fight the urge to place her fingers under his chin and lift his face up herself.

“I forgive you, Commander. Thank you,” she says, smiling reassuringly at him when he looks up in disbelief.

Naya was amazed at how quickly her anger dissipated. Even before he apologized, she felt herself forgiving him.

“Would—would you like to walk with me? All this forgiveness has given me a burst of energy,” she teases.

He smiles, gesturing for her to lead the way.

They walk in comfortable silence for a good while, stopping every few minutes to point out a small fish under their feet. Only when the doors to Haven are visible again does Cullen speak.

“I read the reports on Redcliffe and Alexius. You,” he clears his throat nervously, “you handled yourself quite well. Had I been in your shoes, I’m not sure how I would have reacted.”

“Thank you, Commander,” and suddenly, Naya is grateful for the darkness. She feels herself blush.

“Cullen,” he tells her with a fond smile.

“Cullen,” she grins back.

He stops abruptly at the front doors to Haven, looking at her with a positively horrified expression.

“Cullen, what is it? What’s wrong?” She is searching his chest for wounds before she even knows what she’s doing. Her hands are looking for an entry wound, a chink in his armor. Could he have been attacked just then? Without her noticing? Maybe a dagger, a silent arrow?

“I don’t—I don’t know your name,” he says, mortified. Naya’s hands drop to her side once she realizes they’re still on his chest plate, breathing a sigh of relief that he isn’t hurt.

“Naya. Naya Trevelyan.”

“Naya,” he says, a dazed look in his eyes. “Naya. Naya,” he repeats, much like she did in her quarters the night she first heard his name.

“A fan of the name, are you,” she teases, trying to hide how pleased she is to hear him repeating it.

“It suits you,” he says, a boyish smile spreading across his face.

“It means ‘New’. My mother and father came to the Free Marches looking for a new life, and they got one when they had me. That’s what she said, anyway.”

“And your brother? What was his name?”

“Jarek,” she swallows down the lump in her throat that is always there when she talks about him, instead focusing on the scar above Cullen’s mouth again.

“A Ferelden name, hm? I had an uncle Jarek.”

She doesn’t hear him, though. Not really. Instead, without thinking, she reaches up and touches his scar lightly with her pointer finger, her brain needing to know what it feels like.

Soft, of course. It healed as clean as it could have for what was no doubt an incredibly deep wound. Most likely a whip of some kind. God, she wanted to destroy whoever did this to him, whoever hurt him.

He gasps against her hand, going stone still, and she pulls her hand away, broken out of her reverie.

“I’m—Maker, I’m so sorry, Cullen, I—“ but before she can finish stammering out an apology, her fight or flight response kicks in, and she runs through the thick doors of Haven, into the safety of her room, where she’ll be able to writhe in shame until the sun comes up.

And she does.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruh-roh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha I am so late to the DA:I party it's ridiculous. Enjoy <3

“You look like shite,” Sera tells her on the ride to the Mire.

 

“You sure you’re not looking in a mirror, Sera? The metal on your coat is extremely reflective,” Naya teases, smiling at Sera’s returned maniacal giggle.

 

“You’re so fun, shite-faced lady Herald.”

 

She knows she looks bad. She didn’t sleep for a second after her mortifying moment with Cullen. By the time she was ready to rest, the sun was up and their horses were ready for the 2 day trip to the swamp.

 

“While we wait for the last of the mages to arrive, we’ve encountered an issue in the Fallow Mire that requires your attention. A group of our soldiers have gone missing.” Cassandra hands her the report while she’s still in bed, leaving with a short, respectful nod.

 

To think she’d have to wait at least a week to see him and apologize. In that amount of time, he could decide he hates her, never wants to speak to her again. Maker, he could be incredibly self-conscious about his scar, for all she knows, and she TOUCHED it like it was hers to touch!

 

No. If she didn’t clear this up immediately, she would never sleep again. She’d be distracted and miss something crucial, and she couldn’t afford to do that. Not with soldiers’ lives at stake.

 

The moment they make camp for the night, she writes a letter.

 

 

_Cullen,_

_I apologize for writing this in a letter and not speaking to you personally, but I cannot bear to let it go unaddressed while I am away._

_I was more than out of line for invading your personal space like that, and for running away after. I am so incredibly sorry for the discomfort I inevitably caused._

_You see, I was very tired, and not thinking clearly. Sometimes, I see something and I fixate on it. Once, I became so obsessed with this satchel my mother had, that I shoved my hand clean through the bottom of it trying to feel its every feature. Truly. She sent me to bed without supper and made me sew up the hole that I left._

_Regardless, a satchel is very different from a person’s face, I recognize that._

_I hope you can forgive me. Just as we were starting to become friends, too._

_We seem to be apologizing to each other an awful lot, hm?_

_Warmly,_

_Naya Trevelyan_

_\---_

 

The troops are alive when they reach them, not even a day after they arrive. The Avaar leader was gigantic, but no match for Bull, Sera, Dorian, and herself. They cut through them with only minor injuries.

Truthfully, Naya was relieved that the mission didn’t take the full week. In fact, they closed a few rifts, carved out a path free of putrid undead for the remaining survivors of the swamp, all in about three days, and with minimal injuries. On the night before their departure, one of Leliana’s ravens brings Naya a letter.

 

“Is someone writing you love poems while you’re off saving the world,” Dorian asks playfully, repairing a loose stitch on his battlemage robe.

 

“You know I only accept love poems from you, Dearest,” she teases, coaxing a laugh out of the mage.

 

"And yet here you are, with a letter very much not from me."

 

"Is that jealousy I hear in your voice, fancy pants?" 

 

"Sera, jealousy would imply that someone out there ever posed a threat to me."

 

"Keep talkin' it up, pretty boy. One day we'll believe you," Iron Bull mumbles with an entire chicken leg in his mouth.

 

They talk for a few minutes, then she retires to her tent, opening the letter eagerly.

_Herald,_

 

Naya winces at the formal identifier.

 

_I have spoken with Leliana. I am glad to hear that your mission in the swamps has gone well and that you all will be returning to Haven safely._

_As for the incident you mentioned in your letter, consider it forgiven, though there is nothing to forgive. Truthfully, I’m relieved you didn’t accidentally punch a hole through my face as you did with the satchel. That would leave a far worse, far more distracting scar, would it not?_

_Do not trouble yourself or worry further. It is forgotten._

_Be safe._

_-Commander Cullen_

Naya holds the letter to her chest, breathing deeply for the first time in days. She falls asleep rereading it, unashamed.

 

\---

 

“Locks! You’re back!” She sits down next to Varric by his fire and pretends to be annoyed at how he messes up her hair. “Was the Mire as lovely and picturesque as it sounds?”

 

“It would be the perfect setting for another one of your romance serials. A couple meets and falls in love amidst an undead infested bog. Then, plot twist, her lover was a rotting corpse the entire time, and she was losing her mind to plague.”

 

“Andraste’s ass, that’s dark,” he laughs, stoking the fire. “The last of the mages got here only a few hours before you did. You gonna be alright?” Varric had always been the one to ask her if she was okay, from the moment she met him, and always in a way that allowed her to tell the truth.

 

“It really hurts, Varric. I wouldn’t mind if I wasn’t afraid that it would stop me from closing something so big.”

 

“Does Cassandra know that it’s painful for you?” He rests a hand on her knee, squeezing lightly. It’s the first time she’s told anyone about it.

 

“It wouldn’t change anything. This isn’t something I can sit out because it hurts, you know? I—" She trails off when she sees Cullen heading out of the chantry, alone.

 

Varric chuckles beside her. “Curly, huh? I couldn’t have picked better nicknames for you both. You guys have quite the hair.”

 

“Oh for—we’re barely _friends_ , Varric. Even if I _was_ interested in more--” she was--“The man is so busy, I don’t even know how he has time to relieve himself.”

 

“I’m pretty sure I saw scout Jim follow him into the outhouse once.”

 

Cullen makes eye contact with her over the campfire, his face blurred and beautiful over the opaque heat. She stands up and walks towards him without thinking, without saying anything to Varric. She vaguely hears him laughing behind her.

 

“Cullen, it’s good to see you,” she falls into step beside him, trying not to close her eyes and breathe him in. He smells so good. So familiar.

 

“Likewise, Lady Herald.” She hates that he won’t call her by her name, but she’s too happy to see him to do anything about it at present, too content to just walk beside him a bit longer.

 

“Would you care to join me for another walk tonight, Cullen? Tomorrow will be a big day, and I’d love to have some company.” It was bold, she knew that, but it felt wrong to continue ignoring how much she wanted to be around him, how much he affected her simply by being present.

 

She watches him think for a moment, holding her breath when he finally speaks.

 

“I would be honored, Herald.”

 

“Naya,” she corrects, smiling hopefully.

 

He looks around self-consciously, the tips of his ears turning red.

 

“Tonight, then,” he says, before turning on his heels and leaving.

 

Naya waits for him outside of the chantry. The hem of her coat has been all but destroyed by her restless fingers. Every minute she waits, she pulls at the stitching, prods at the folded fabric until it becomes loose under her touch.

 

The tips of her fingers are red and a bit raw from the constant fussing, so she holds one in her mouth at a time to soothe the slight burning.

 

She's sucking on her pointer finger when the doors to the Chantry open, and Cullen’s eyes widen when he sees her, focusing on where her pruny finger is still trapped between her lips. It's a small moment, one that Naya almost misses because she'ss too busy yanking her now pruny finger out of her mouth.

 

“Sorry, cut my finger,” she tries to explain, but her breathy voice doesn’t sound believable in the slightest. He just nods his head, falling into step beside her as they start their walk.

 

“Cullen, may I ask you something?”

 

“I will try my best to answer,” he smiles.

 

“Why do you still call me Herald, now that you know my real name?”

 

“Because that is your title, and it is well-deserved.”

 

“Must we be so formal with each other,” she asks, trying to catch his gaze.

 

“You must be treated with the utmost respect, especially from the Commander. If I get too comfortable, others may stop being so formal.”

 

“Please, Cullen, call me by my name, just once. I must know that you remember it,” she begs, nearly pressing herself against his armor.

 

His jaw clenches and unclenches, the movement obvious in the shadow of the moonlight. He looks positively distraught, and his body is tight the way it was when she touched his scar.

 

“Forgive me,” she whispers, suddenly ashamed, “it seems I’m rather good at making you extremely uncomfortable.”

 

She backs away from him, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s not my intention, I promise you. I just.”

 

“Naya,” he whispers, in a rush, like he wanted to do it fast enough that no one could hear, even though there isn’t a soul around.

 

His soldier’s resolve had, for a brief moment, crumbled, and she stood victorious, having been able to reach through the layers of self-discipline to reach the man underneath. She closes her eyes against the sound of her name in his mouth, trying not to shudder a bit, but failing.

 

“Thank you.” She reigns her emotions in and they begin walking again. “It’s nice to remember that I’m just a person sometimes, that’s all. I’m grateful for the title, and I accept it, but I never want to forget that I’m—I’m still a human being. I still struggle with things.”

 

“I understand. I will remember that, moving forward.”

 

\--------- 

 

She did it. Really did it. Closing the rift had caused her to completely black out. Her hand felt like it was on fire, eating away at her skin and through the bone, but she did it, and the world was safe.

 

Haven was celebrating when she left her tent. Sounds of lutes and string instruments, the smell of spilled beer on the dirt, and, most importantly, laughter. It had been so long since she heard Haven sound like anything other than a port before a storm. Villagers were dancing in the square, couples were kissing, hugging each other under the scarred, but healed sky.

 

“You really did it, didn’t you, Locks,” Varric walks up to her, clapping.

 

“We all did it,” she corrects, smiling.

 

“Oh don’t be so modest. Solas spouted some Mumbo jumbo to the mages, but you let that thing almost rip you apart. Not Cassandra, not Curly, not me.”

 

“Without you all, I wouldn’t have been able to do it. Thank you, Varric. Do you want a beer?”

 

“Rain check on that,” Varric smiles, eyes on something over Naya’s shoulder.

 

“Lady Herald,” Cullen’s voice cuts through the noise of Haven, and she turns from Varric to face him. He’s smiling wider than Naya has ever recalled seeing, and his hair is unruly, falling into his face. “I came to congratulate you on a job well done. I—I had no doubts, but I was still very proud.”

 

“Thank you,” is all she manages. She follows him to the front of one of the cabins outside of the Chantry and watches as he leans against the wall to take in the scene below.

 

“Shall we join your companions in their celebration?”

 

 "In a moment."

 

The tip of his nose is red, as are his cheeks. A lock of his hair has fallen into his face again, and Naya isn’t sure she’s ever seen anyone more beautiful.

 

“May I,” she begins, pointing to the loose curl. He takes a second to respond before nodding.

 

Encouraged by his permission, she reaches up to his face, brushing his hair back slowly, making sure she savors the momentary contact. It’s the first time she’s ever touched his skin, she realizes with a start. Slowly, boldly, she lets her palm touch down on the high point of his cheek, her fingers slowly brushing through his hair.

 

A small sigh rushes out of him, and he closes his eyes. She feels him press into her touch, the pressure of his cheek on her palm growing a bit deeper.

 

“You have lovely hair,” she whispers, no longer watching her hand, but watching his face. He looks peaceful, almost asleep, as she continues to hold his cheek with her left hand. Steeling herself, she scratches lightly at his scalp.

 

He moans. It makes her stomach hot, makes her cheeks flush almost instantly. She lifts both hands, now, into his scalp, scratching lightly, massaging.

 

“Fuck,” he moans again, and she gasps outright at that, the fire in her belly moving in between her legs. His mouth parts and he breathes out in short pants. A gloved hand grabs her waist like he needs to anchor himself to her.

 

“Feel good?” She asks, unable to be ashamed at how weak her voice sounds.

 

“Yes,” he whispers, gripping both sides of her waist now. She continues to move her hands through his hair, exploring his entire head, the delicate shape of it, the soft curve of his skull where it meets the nape of his neck.

 

The longer she touches him, the closer he pulls her. After a minute or two, she’s almost completely pressed against him. Haven is still celebrating outside of this space, but she doesn’t care, because the only person she wants to see is holding onto her like he’ll die if he doesn’t, and it’s electric.

 

“Cullen,” she whispers, resting her hands in his hair. He keeps his eyes closed, brow furrowing deeply as his hands press even harder, sliding from her waist to her hips, and then lower, just above the curve of her backside. He angles his head down, and his heavy breaths wash over her mouth. He’s so close, so close. His other hand, still tame on her waist has scrunched up her shirt so that two of his fingers are touching her bare skin, and she brings both hands to his face, allowing herself this moment to trace his scar again.

 

They’re interrupted by the sound of screams, followed by cries of agony, and before she can process any of it, Cullen is gone.

 


End file.
